The Pace of Nature
by syn0dic
Summary: When Motte Barlow and her girlfriend Ophir Price are separated on a backpacking trip, not just by getting lost, but by entering another world, the two take very different paths. Forced to deal with the reality of being strangers in a strange land, they grow and change, but inevitably, the fate of one will always be intertwined with that of the other.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is not anywhere close to my first fanfiction, but it is definitely my first published one. I spent a long time in the deliberation phase for this, and decided that if this is the first I'm going to finish, it's also the first one I'm going to publish. I'm not traditionally a fan of the "fall into a fictional world" trope, but credit where credit is due is owed: this is a bit of a tribute to my first, and long since deleted fanfiction, rife with unrealistic expectations, divergences from canon, and plenty of other characterization problems. This is not just an attempt to mitigate those errors: this is a genuine exploration in writing an epic-style romance between two of the fairer sex, a nearly invisible portion of the fanfiction present in the Lord of the Rings archives. Motte and Ophir are unapologetically in love, though they share little time together; their stories will always be intertwined. I will use a lot of book-oriented knowledge from the more extended universe's lore, but I don't think it's required knowledge to appreciate the story. If it could be puzzling, it'll come with a footnote, though those chapters likely won't appear until much alter in the story. My chapters also have a tendency to be brief and to the point, but there will be many of them, though this is still a WIP. I have a healthy vault of unpublished material at the moment that's still being edited, and I plan on updating at least weekly. Any criticism is more than welcome, and should you wish to message me about anything, I'm almost always available.**

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"Babe," Motte said, stumbling behind her girlfriend, her hiking boots half untied and her steps barely scraping the top of the tree roots. "Slow down. This is a camping trip, not a race."

"Sorry," said Ophir, about twenty feet in front of her. She didn't have to raise her voice- it was loud enough as it was. "I'm just really excited." And far more used to rugged trails than Motte was.

While Motte was a fashion design major with internships lined up at the door, Ophir was a soon-to-be park ranger, finishing up her senior year of college with a degree in ecology. Her homelands were the wilds of North America, and though the cold of winter still clung to the woods, spring break had promised a break enough for the happy couple to go backpacking. Motte and Ophir had been together for two years now, having met by chance during a hockey game. Motte had never seen a match before, and Ophir was a much more enthusiastic fan than most in the audience, and the two had hit it off sitting next to one another. A meeting led to friendship, led to a hangout, led to a date,and before they knew it, they were a couple. Different and contrasting though they were, the two thrived on the duality of each other, constantly learning from one another's experiences and having more in common than met the eye.

Motte took a long sip from her Camelback and stepped over the roots. They were at the trail's head in Great Smoky Mountain National Park, and they were going to be out in the woods of Appalachia, sleeping in a tent for three days, before coming back up, and on the way back to Columbus, visiting Motte's father, who had a small livestock farm in northern Kentucky. She was excited to go home, almost as excited as Ophir was to spend four days in off-the-grid wilderness.

"I know," said Motte, a light smile on her lips as she caught up to her girlfriend. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed her cheek lightly and kept going past her. A bit dazed, Ophir watched her pull ahead, then followed behind her, shifting her backpack further up onto her shoulder. It was heavy, but nothing her muscular arms, back, and shoulders couldn't handle. Ophir was not slender. If she was a tree, she would be oak- strong, broad, and stubborn.

"You don't ever play fair, do you?" Ophir said.

"What on earth do you mean?" Motte asked innocently

"You're going to beat me there just 'cuz you keep distracting me."

"And," said Motte, a lilt in her voice, "how do I do that? I don't think this is even a race."

"The little kiss thing!" And yes, to Ophir, it was.

"Am I not allowed to kiss my own girlfriend?" she said. "I can't believe it. Wake up, America."

"We're hiking! What if I lost my concentration and fell on my face?"

"You're smarter than that," said Motte. "More coordinated, too. If you're that easily distracted, maybe you need a different job."

"You won't be at work with me," said Ophir.

"But what if I call you? Then what?"

"Then I'll be distracted. So don't call me."

"But what if I miss you?" Ophir was trying not to giggle like a child.

"You don't miss me!" She elbowed Motte. "You miss my damn attention!"

"Falsehoods and lies. I miss every bit of you."

"Is that so? Even the sweat? Because you complain about the sweat."

"Not the sweat. I miss every bit of post-shower you." The two of them had moved into an apartment together, and loved every minute of time spent with one another. It had been a late night, between-the-sheets idea to take a real vacation for spring break, and while Motte was initially reserved about the prospect of not showering for three days on the trail, she had also warmed up to it as they planned it. She'd gotten to help dress and decorate Ophir's things, and had taken her shopping and to fancy boutiques, she might as well get to know part of her life better.

Six hours went by with this bickering and discussion and laughter. They talked about books, politics, and wildlife, but often found themselves relishing in the silence. The crunch of leaves underfoot was enough noise at times, but sometimes, their own voices needed to sound through the canopy. It was the romantic getaway of their dreams, and as the sun began to set around 5, they decided to break camp along the trail, in a small clearing.

Shadowed by maple, beech, hemlock, and poplar, Motte, who was a birch tree if Ophir was oak, dropped the pack and flopped onto a log. "Night, babe." Flair for the dramatic, as always.

"You get a ten minute nap," said Ophir, setting down her pack with more care and untying the tent canvas and ground pads. "But after that, you get to either gather sticks and build a fire for dinner, or you get to pitch the tent." Motte thought about which she knew how to do. She couldn't start a fire if she had a gallon of gas, a flamethrower, and an entire plain of dry grass.

"I'll pitch the tent." She rolled over and sat up. Which left Ophir to gather firewood. She checked her boots, took a final sip of water along with her carabiner that also happened to have her bear spray hooked onto it, and headed out.

Motte, in the meanwhile, pushed herself up and grabbed the tent poles and tarp. She had insisted on using her vintage, eBay purchased canvas army tent, complete with aluminum poles, and Ophir had said that if she wanted to use the fancy tent, she would have to carry it. It may have been just a two (wo)man tent, but it sure was a hell of a lot heavier now than it had felt at the start of the day. Taking the aluminum poles out of the carrying case, she laid them out, got out the stakes and mallet, and hammered the tarp down with only minor injury, a bruised index finger. She sucked on it for a second, then went back to work. In around 20 minutes' time, she had it up, and had chucked most of their things into it.

In the meantime, Ophir was having a surprisingly difficult time finding viable firewood. There must've been rain recently, because not only was the soil and sticks she could find damp, but also, there was still some remnant flow down to where there was likely a creek bed deeper in the woods. She wasn't going that way, having no intention of getting lost, but finally settled on the armful of wood she did have. She meandered back to the site, but the sky was beginning to get even darker than it already was. It wouldn't be long before creatures came out.

When she got back to the campsite, Motte was already done, had taken off her shoes, and had pulled out a book. She'd always taken books on the trail, but Ophir herself, being a more physically inclined person, was not a big reader and found it to be more tiring to read after a day of hiking than it was relaxing. "Which one is it this time?" she asked, curiously.

"Song of Myself." Ophir nodded, as if she'd heard of this before, though she hadn't. "It's Walt Whitman. You'd like him. He was a poet." Motte stuck her nose back into the book.

"Nice." Ophir began making a campfire ring in front of the log, the smooth, weathered stones of the area perfect for the job. She shuttled the leaves out of the new little pit, and set up an A-frame campfire. "Can you hand me the fire starters?" Ophir, a wilderness purist, used her own egg crate, dryer lint, and paraffin wax fire starters for campouts and would refuse any and all alternatives.

"Yup." Motte threw her the Ziplock bag after rummaging in Ophir's pack for a second. In five minutes of quiet, Ophir had raised dry log to the beginnings of a crackling fire. For a moment, she felt a surge of the awe humanity's primitive ancestors had upon the creation of fire, and staring into its burning heat, felt the warmth of summer even in the earliest weeks of spring, when the snow had only just melted away. But then, the grumble of her stomach came back. She wasn't going to bother Motte now, and reached for her pack herself, over Motte's feet, and grabbed the thermal tote. They'd packed, for tonight, some potatoes they'd sliced in advance and sausages. They were wrapped in aluminum foil, and to be eaten as nature intended: with their bare hands. The foil pack popped and fizzed when she set it down into the coals, but with time, she could smell the sweetness of cooking meat.

"They're ready," said Ophir, pulling the pack out with the hem of her shirt shielding her from the brunt of the heat. She tossed Motte the foil pack, and reached in with her unburnt hand to nab a fresh-from-the-fire slice of potato. "Why does open flame make everything taste better?"

"Mmm-mm." It resembled an "I don't know," but out of Motte's food-filled mouth, it was barely a mumble. "But it does," she said, following a swallow.

"I wonder if it's the nature. You know, the magic of nature." She took another bite. "Like how everything is prettier out here. I never remember the park being this beautiful when I came last." Motte had never come this way, and had no way to form an opinion.

"It's spring. Everything is beautiful when you can still feel the cold, but see the sun." Motte sucked a bit of grease off her finger, then reached for another bite. "It's green, but you still can feel something coming." This was her home, her sweet rolling, round mountains covered in trees.

"Maybe," said Ophir, "but everything seems so different." She wasn't going to get worried yet, but they should've reached at least one of the landmarks on the map that night. They could've been walking slowly, but that was unlikely. Motte was no experienced hiker, but she was at least physically fit, and Ophir could easily travel fifteen miles in the time they'd hiked that day, not accounting for elevation. They should've passed more trail markers, as well, and while she knew that they were both going to be safe for the night, it worried her how they'd travel in the morning. "Like it's an entirely new place."

"There was a wildfire a few years back," she said. "Maybe you just don't recognize the new growth."

"That's probably it. Still, I feel like something here is strange." Ophir's instinct was never wrong, but she wasn't going to push it now. There was little they could do this time of night, and often, places seemed unfamiliar or foreign after dark.

Motte felt it too. This was close to her home, and she knew her spring, her end of winter. But Motte also knew that if she showed any sign of alarm, it would send Ophir into a whole night of trepidation. "I'm sure it's fine." She reached for another potato. "What did we even put on these things? They're better than I remember last time."

They went back to finishing their dinner, and balled up the foil repacked all their supplies, and made a bear hang. The sounds of animals in the woods startled neither of them, and taking off their boots, they both crawled into their sleeping bags inside the two-woman tent for the night.

"Hon?" Ophir stared up at the stars through the mesh window of the tent. Motte laid beside her, staring at the canvas ceiling and beginning to doze off.

"Mm?" She turned over and gazed at Ophir lovingly, the soft, tiredness clear on her face.

"I love you." She'd said this every night for the last year and a half, of course, but it felt special and different every time she said it. "I'm glad to be with you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Motte leaned in, and the two kissed; though it was brief, it was gentle and tender, full of warmth. "I love you too." Motte rolled over, and fell asleep quickly, while Ophir gazed up at the sky for what felt like hours. These were not the stars she knew. She thought for what felt like hours of all the stories her mother told her about the stars, and none of these stars were familiar. She couldn't even see Polaris in the sky, though she knew the window faced north. She'd checked. Something was wrong, and it was many hours before her eyes drifted closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ophir**

Ophir stirred awake at dawn, though not for the reason she would've expected to. The tent flap was open. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, and looked over to Motte. Motte was gone. She must've gotten an early start to the morning, she thought, but no- her boots and socks were still in the tent, as was her coat. Would she have gone out barefoot, and unprotected from the cold? That didn't sound like the Motte she knew. Then again, Motte was prone to sleepwalking. If she'd wandered off in the night- Ophir didn't want to think about that.

"Babe?" She called, her heart in her throat. "Motte?" No response. "Babe!" She called a little louder, sliding out of her sleeping bag and pulling on her boots and fleece. "Motte!" There was still nothing. Could she have been kidnapped? Taken? Eaten by a bear? Lost in the woods? There was no cell phone service out here, and she couldn't breathe all of the sudden. Would she be so easily gone?

Ophir then did something she knew better than to do. All her years of wilderness training had told her that never, under any circumstances, did you break away from the campsite alone. Never did you leave the path without a partner, and never did you go without a map. But her head was pounding, her vision was a blurred smear of green and brown panic, and she had one thought, and one thought only: she needed to find her girlfriend.

In Ophir's jacket pocket was a ring. She had been planning to propose on this trip, and she had been hoping, of course, that Motte would be here to wear it. It was simple, a little silver band with a single diamond that had been her grandmother's.

She could feel it burn in her pocket as she followed the deer trail deeper into the woods. She lost sight of the camp behind her, the canvas tent no longer in range of her vision and obscured by trees and undergrowth. She continued on, paying no heed to the obvious danger she was putting herself in. "Motte," she called, every few steps that she could catch a breath. Her chest was thumping, and she could hear a stream. There had been no streams in this part of the trail on the map.

She found it quickly by following its burbling, rhythmic sound, and lo and behold, the stream was clear, about a foot deep by five wide, and all smooth stones. It ran further into the woods. A feeling tugged at Ophir's gut. Motte had come this way. She knew it to be true. But Ophir was growing parched, and she dropped to her knees and cupped stream water in her hands. Raising her hands to her mouth, she drank in the cool, clear water. It was clean, or at least, tasted the part, and reminded her of the snow melting higher in the mountains. She rose onto her feet, and followed the stream to her right, deeper into darkness.

The growth was no longer the welcoming dogwood, birch, and poplar, but were now dark pine, oak, and elm, their shadowy boughs heavy with lush canopies that Ophir was certain would be beautiful if they hadn't seemed to block out the sun. What had began as a clear morning now seemed overcast, and the sun was high. It had barely seemed an hour that Ophir had been away from the campsite, but it was midday. She had no way of knowing how to get back. Motte was all alone, without her, and they could both be permanently lost.

Tears were welling in Ophir's eyes. She did not consider herself an overemotional person in the least. In fact, she had barely a sentimental bone in her body. This did not mean, however, that she was totally immune to fear, and the chokehold of despair was closing around her neck. She was alone, she had no food and no water, no compass, no phone, and not even her trusty pocket knife. Worst of all, she had no Motte, no bright, sunny blond to warm her heart and brighten her spirits.

Ophir decided to take a break, or more like, needed one. Her breathing was rapid, and she was thirsty, tired, and afraid. She knelt beside the stream, which had been growing deeper and wider, and drank, then splashed her face. Rather than refreshing her, it just made her colder and made her feel more shaky. She took a deep breath, and let out a sob, long and harsh, then another and another, until there wasn't enough left in her to keep crying. Even the sensation of crying felt a bit foreign- level headed, cocky Ophir had so often swallowed them down and pushed on through her life that she couldn't remember the last time she'd finally mustered enough in her to cry. It felt good, even refreshing if it weren't for the gnawing ache of fear in her gut that kept her pushing on. Eventually, her breathing did slow, her heartbeat quieted, and she sat in still mourning, watching the cool stream pass her by.

So lost was she in her own emotions, that she did not hear the four men creep up behind her and only turned around at the nudge to her back. She whipped around, her dark hair bristling on the back of her neck and brushing her shoulders. It was the shaft of a spear that had struck her squarely between the shoulder blades. It was now pointed at her sternum and had glanced her fleece jacket, leaving a little hole.

Processing the attackers' appearances took a little longer. All of them had dark brown or black hair, and pale skin. This was not uncommon. What was uncommon was that all of them had hair that trailed down their backs. Fake pointed ear caps were on, too, which meant they were…elves? She hadn't ever read any fantasy books as a child, having a very strong preference for space adventures, and as soon as she discovered video games, none at all. They wore tunics and robes over breeches- was that what they were called? Motte would've known. It all seemed as if they'd waltzed out of a renaissance faire or a LARP session. These were the kinds of nerds she had beat up after hockey matches in high school. She would've said that out loud too, if they weren't armed and clearly ready to use the weapons in their hands.

The leader said something, and his voice was low. It sounded similar to something European, but she didn't know what. It flowed and sounded almost guttural, as if he was speaking some dead language, though she couldn't put her finger on why. "Sorry," she said. "I speak English." He repeated something in a slightly different language. "No cigar." She shook her head. He frowned at her and lowered his spear. He said something to the other men, and one of them hoisted her up without any warning, and the other one tied her wrists and slung her over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" She said, her usually deep and loud voice becoming shrill and frantic. "Right now! I lift, you hear me? I could take any of you in judo! And even if I couldn't, I'd want your fucking respect!" This was not a bluff. However, the man was paying her no mind. Either he didn't care for the opinions of a lost young woman in a beat up Patagonia, or he didn't understand them. No matter which was the case, she had a bad feeling about this.

The brunette jerk had a hard time for the first ten minutes he was carrying Ophir. She was kicking and screaming and cussing him out. But after about ten minutes, she began to lose her potency, and eventually, after about an hour, stopped fighting altogether. She confessed, for a geek, he was damn strong, and at the very least was carrying 175 pounds of buff, kicking, screaming college girl. However, he didn't set her down during that time at all, for the whole four hours they travelled, and she was beginning to have to pee. They were still in the deep woods, far from civilization, and it looked like they were getting further.

"Excuse me," she said, trying to get his attention. "Can you, like, set me down or something?" She tapped on his shoulder politely. "Please." He began to slow down. "I'll pee on you if you don't." He said something to his friend, and they all slowed to a gradual stop. That must've done the trick. She thudded to the ground like a sack of potatoes, which hit her leg and hip in the most painful way. She hissed through her teeth, and wished desperately they'd be more considerate with their apparent hostages. "I know it looks like I have padding," she said, "but I assure you that still hurt like a bitch." But her hands were tied and unable to rub at the future bruises along her lower body. She forced herself to sit up, grateful that she had done more core training when she'd had the chance, then rose. It was like leg day all over again.

"Can you untie me?" She waved her hands up together. "Hello?" They were talking amongst themselves and biting out of some kind of biscuit looking thing. "Untie me. I gotta take a leak." She waved her arms up again. They stared at her for a second, then went back to talking. This wasn't working. How could she get their attention, and gesture for what she needed?

Ophir clapped her hands loudly, then whistled. It was the same thing she used to call her dog as a kid, but whatever. It caught their attention. She lowered her hands to her crotch and crossed her legs. Absolutely juvenile, crude, disgusting, and childish, but the message was there. Frowning curtly, she pointed her arms to the woods. That must've started a slight argument, because they raised their voices, and one of them shouted something at the others before cutting the rope around her wrist. She nodded in gratitude, and went to do her business.

And he followed her. She sighed exasperatedly. This was Fake Elf #2. Fake Elf #1 was the guy who carried her. This guy had darker hair, and more concerned expressions on his face. Plus, he wore a shorter cloak. She finally got to a decent bush, and stood at it, waiting patiently for him to take the hint and look away. She pointed. "Rude." He frowned at her, and looked the other direction while she copped a squat. Pulling her jeans back up with a confident tug and substantial relief, they headed back up to the rest of the group. They were all sitting down, and she sat beside them, though unable to participate in conversation.

Leaning against the rock, Ophir stared up at the endless blue sky. She knew what the early spring sun of Appalachia looked like, and this was not it. It was still March, of course, but something seemed so much closer and foggier in the clouds, as if a heavy mist came up every morning, and the sun seemed a bit dimmer, as if they were further north and still in the cold months. This was possible. It had dropped at least ten degrees since she'd left the campsite, but a cold front was expected that week, and she had thought little of it until then. She zipped up her fleece and fiddled for a few seconds with the stray thread on one of the patches she'd stitched on herself.

The conversation seemed lighthearted enough. They were laughing, jesting, drinking water, and one of them even handed her his skin. It looked like a parchment-like leather, with a cork stopper. They'd really gone all out on the historical accuracy, hadn't they? She took a few sips, drinking it slowly and with enthusiasm, sloshing each sip in her mouth. She didn't know when she would drink anything next, and savoring the sweet, if not slightly stale water was paramount.

About an hour later, another group crashed through the clearing. More travel battered, heavily packed men, and four of them, with beards and bags and weapons, and no fake ears, entered the clearing, and they began a more solemn discussion, rife with pointing in her general direction. They were also all white. She knew that renaissance fairs were seldom too inclusive, but wasn't this a bit far? Her people were here first, or at least that was the joke she and her parents had always made. Of course, this was assuming they were still in America, and not Westeros or Hogwarts or something. After about two hours of sitting, drinking, and discussion, the fake elves left. Without her. She'd gotten attached to them, even if it was just a little, and sulked. She had no idea what the grimy armor men wanted with her.

One of them tossed her the butt end of a loaf of bread, and she chewed it. It was some kind of dry, rye-like flatbread, but she supposed way bread would have to be. It kept longer. She remembered something like that from the single agriculture class she had taken as a degree requirement. She flashbacked to the history segment and the domestication of wheat, fading out for a few minutes before someone called at her. She snapped back to reality and stared at him, trying to figure out what he was saying.

"Sorry. I speak English." How many times would she have to say that today? He glanced at his friends, then pointed at his chest. "Urithor." He then pointed to his friends in succession. "Mareck. Osric. Aldred." He then pointed to her. Was he asking her name? She was having a hard time figuring this out, but it seemed fairly straightforward.

"Ophir." She pointed to herself. "Ophir."

They went back to talking, but now mentioned her name now and again. Well, they were talking about her. She didn't know whether that was good, or bad. Were they discussing how they'd kill her or sell her into slavery? She wasn't sure. Who was going to kidnap her and marry her and keep her at home? None of them, if she could help it. She'd already had to defend herself against an attacker before, she'd do it again.

The sun was already beginning to set, and one of the men, she thought it was Aldred, began to build a fire, and they hadn't yet sat near her, touched her, tied her up, or called anyone else over to them. Her fears were beginning to slide away. What was it they said about the violence in Game of Thrones being historically inaccurate anyways? And she'd co-authored an entire paper in her sophomore year about exaggerated historical violence against women. She sat with her knees tucked to her chest. It was cold, horribly cold, and unprecedented. She hadn't felt it before, but she scooted closer to the fire, warming her hands as it grew and the evening began to settle in. One of them threw her a jacket. She nodded in gratitude.

Mareck said something. Staring at her, he repeated the word. Was it their word for thank you? He waved his hands for the throwing motion again, and then the catching motion. She repeated it as best she could, and he nodded at her, then said the word again. She repeated it. It sounded similar to what she recognized as Olde English, with a bit of something German thrown in. Even the word for "thank you," if that's what it was, sounded like "danke," with a different lilt. She was grateful again for a college education and three semesters of German.

Knowing that, she could pick up scattered words and phrases as they talked, and even recognized a "good night" not too far from her own, before bedding down with the coat on top of her. It was heavy, some kind of felted wool. Motte would know, she thought, the pain and longing of sleeping alone, for the first time in months, setting in. No fire could warm the empty spot beside her, and no sweet voice would tell her, "I love you." The stars, as unsettling as they'd been in the nights before, seemed absent to her now.


	3. Chapter 3

Motte

Motte woke up in a bed. This was particularly strange, because she hadn't gone to sleep in a bed. It was also itchy, and a little lumpy, and the ceiling above her was wood and stucco. A quilt of some mixed fabrics was over her, and the closer she observed her environment, the stranger it was. She was on a wool and straw mattress on a wooden floor, and there were a few antique looking boxes and jars and barrels around her. She was definitely prone to sleep walking and had lent some comedic relief to Ophir before, but never on this kind of level. That is, never going as far as to wake up in a complete other house. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and sat up, her frizzy white blond hair in a crown around her head, her braids undone. She wasn't wearing shoes or socks, either, and could feel the cuts and scrapes covering the soles of her feet. She'd definitely sleepwalked.

The sunlight streamed through the windows, dusty and faded, the glass smeared and in need of a good wash. She was still in her clothes, the hiking pants and button down shirt that she'd gone to sleep in. That was good. But where was Ophir, and why did it look like she'd been transplanted into one of the fake back rooms at a Medieval Times, or a period revival town? Maybe an Amish colony? She had a bad feeling about this, and pushed herself into an upright position, from which she could see out the window.

Well, the room was at least on the second floor of the building. There were streets and building below now that she could see out the window. Was she in a house? A shop? An inn? Nothing made sense. The roofs were thatch. She could recognize that much. But she didn't know of any towns in this area that were this close to the park, let alone had thatch roofs and daub walls. Sure, there was the odd wood shingled cabin out around the holler, but Motte had no idea how an entire town could fall off the maps.

She heard a voice. It sounded like it was coming from downstairs, but she perked up in curiosity nonetheless. She stopped moving and trying to look around, and only listened.

A woman's voice, loud and with a bit of a rattle of age, and a lower, slower man's voice. They were arguing. That was likely why she could hear them from the upper floor storage room, but they were not close enough for her to tell what they were saying. She had a feeling that it had something to do with the new stowaway in their attic. Standing up and tiptoeing along the creaking floorboards, she hoped to hear more.

She still couldn't distinguish any words. Were they speaking a language she didn't know, or was she just having a hard time hearing? She needed to move closer. With a puff, she blew a drifting blond baby hair off of her face and began a slow, and hopefully silent descent. The boards creaked under her bare feet, and with one particularly loud step's groan (Motte was thin, for heaven's sakes, there was no call for this noise), the voices stopped. Approaching the bottom of the long stairwell, Motte saw the woman, and nearly jumped out of her skin in alarm.

She was pudgy, older, as Motte had suspected, and had her hair in a frazzled, graying brown bun. She wore a plain apron stained with something brown, and a solid green dress that could've been in a more flattering silhouette, but looked like a heavyweight wool. It was pretty chilly, thought Motte. It was justifiable. The woman's expression softened and she said something in a gentler voice. Motte still couldn't understand.

"English?" She raised an eyebrow and frowned. This wasn't a language she could understand.

The woman shook her head, and waved Motte downstairs, as she was still perched on the landing like it was a diving board. Motte hesitated, before setting down a bare foot on the rough hewn floorboards. A wisp of her hair drifted into her face, and with a puff of breath, she blew it away. Looking up, and around, she took a deep breath.

The room was large, she estimated thirty by fifteen feet, with a concave, ribbed ceiling, the same rough boards on the floor now the spine of the building. From the ceiling hung a few lanterns, which were not lit yet, but the windows along the wall to her left let in enough daylight to see clearly. A few long tables spanned the room, and a fireplace stretched from floor to ceiling on the far end of the room. A bar- or what appeared to be, by the barrels, casks, and bottles stacked behind the counter, was beside the stairs. This appeared to be some sort of tavern. She placed a wild bet that she was no longer in Amish country.

A man around the same age as the woman stood beside the counter, wiping it off with a rag. He said something to the woman- yes, this was the other voice in the argument. She responded curtly- some messages did not need to be understood by their words. Tutting a bit and reaching for Motte's arm, which she pulled away in surprise, the woman shook her head. Motte had a terrible feeling about this, the nervousness of her stomach rising in her throat. The woman took a deep breath and said something to the man with a laugh, then offered out her hand. Motte stared down at the calloused palms, and offered out her smooth, white, bony hand, glass compared to this woman's leather.

The woman clasped Motte's palm, as if attempting to comfort her, her hands warm and rough, and then she gestured for Motte to follow her. Shaking, Motte followed her back up the stairs, boards creaking underfoot. The woman picked up the quilt and folded it, and set it on the table beside the window. A trunk sat against the wall opposite to the stairs, and the woman walked to it. It was cedar, and Motte knelt next to it.

Inside were seas of brown, green, gray, and blue fabric. She could discern a few varieties of wool, fine pleats, cotton, and even a few bits of lace. The clothes were old, yes, but sturdy, and well made. The heavy scent of cedar and dust wafted up from the treasure trove, and the woman rummaged through it as if she hadn't shown Motte the most beautiful handmade clothes Motte had seen in a long time. The seams were tight and even, and the fabric was soft and strong. She stared in awe as the older woman pulled out a green overdress, an apron, and a long sleeved underdress.

The woman said something, and handed them to Motte.

"I don't understand you," she said, her voice trembling a little as she began to choke up. She held the clothes close to her chest and could feel tears beginning to well in her eyes. The woman sighed heavily and muttered softly, gestured to the trunk, and walked slowly back down the stairs.

Motte unfolded the fabric carefully, and noted that the clothes were a few sizes too large for her. They'd likely been the woman's when she was younger, she guessed, and had been kept for posterity or reuse. She was being given clothes. Carefully, she unbuttoned her shirt and folded it cautiously, leaving it on the bed in a perfect folded pile, and followed it with her pants. Over her head went the underdress. It was hemp, she guessed, by the coarse texture but light weight, and the overdress was wool. They draped on her shoulders, and the sleeves came down an inch past her hands, but she rolled them to her wrists. The bottom hems were skimming the floor, so she'd likely have to hem them eventually, but for now, that was out of the question. She walked back down the stairs, her eyes still puffy from her frustration earlier. She took a deep but shaky breath, and walked back around the corner to the main room of the tavern.

The older man, with his wispy grey beard and salt and pepper hair pulled back into a halfhearted ponytail, smiled at Motte, and the woman looked up at her with an approving nod. She said something again, and moved to straighten the dress on Motte's shoulders. She hunched a little further, still rather lost. The woman said something in the soft tone she'd taken on earlier, and the man responded as he went into what she assumed was one of the backgrounds. She kept talking, and Motte looked up at her, quite confused. This was not going to work.

"I don't know what you're saying." Motte pointed to her mouth, pointed to the woman, and shook her head. Was that something she could understand? The woman stopped, and sighed. She yelled something to the older man, and he came out with a full bucket and a mop in hand.

The woman pointed to the bucket, and said a word. Motte repeated it, focused intently on proper pronunciation- which she must've missed entirely, because the woman shook her head and repeated it, to which Motte tried again and was met with an approving nod. A similar ritual continued with the water, the mop, the chairs, the table, until she could at least make meager attempts at listing furniture. But the morning ended, and as the world outside the windows grew brighter, the woman changed the sign on the window the tavern and unlocked the front door.

She pushed Motte to one of the chairs behind the counter and frustratedly searched for things for Motte to do between helping patrons, settling at last on giving her a needle and thread. Absently embroidering, she wrote her name. She wrote Ophir's name. She drew flowers- pansies, aster, bluebells, bleeding hearts, and Indian blankets, all the ways she remembered them, on scrap brown fabric in white thread. It let her close herself off to the loud patrons, take a few hours of deep concentration, and try and process what was happening.

Motte had sleepwalked. This, she could guess. They'd been in the national park, she had gotten up in the night and left the camp in her sleep, she must've been found by someone and brought back here. Whether it was the people who owned the tavern or not was left to be seen, but that wasn't the issue at hand. She didn't know where this was. There were no towns she knew of like this within the park, and she was enough of a local to the area to know. She'd left Ophir. She'd never meant to do that, she'd never have done that awake, and she was amazed that Ophir had slept heavily enough to not notice her departure from the campsite. Something had been off last night, and Ophir had said it- but Motte had dismissed her. A pang of guilt at that memory struck her. If she'd heeded her, they wouldn't have been separated now. Ophir was probably looking for her, alone out there. She wondered if the park rangers or the search and rescue had been brought out yet. People went missing at parks often, and she wondered if they'd ever find out where she'd gone. How far away was she from the campsite? Would it be impossible to find her, or would Ophir be able to follow her inevitable tracks? What if Ophir was missing as well? That was perhaps the most frightening thought to her. It meant there was no chance of reunion.

Her thoughts wandered to her father. He'd been expecting them, and after her sister left, it had only been the two of them. He was a man of the land, managing a sheep ranch for most of his life. She was his only real living family that kept around, and it had broken her heart to go to college. She'd been looking forward to visiting, even if it meant early mornings helping him and long days dotted by news of her backwoods relatives. And after her mother had died, she often got the joy of managing the house. Her father helped, of course, when he could, often doing the cleaning, but the laundry and cooking and finer details were usually done after school, while he was still out. He was always grateful for her presence. And he'd been understanding of her even when it was difficult. She remembered coming out and gushing about her girlfriend; he'd given her a hug and she'd cried. She would miss him, however long she was here.

The man walked around lighting candles, and lit the fireplace, and suddenly, Motte noticed the draft in the room. It was cold. She was also hungry, thirsty, and needed the bathroom, which scared her most. In the woods, nature and a shovel could take care of her business, but here was probably a different story. She set down the embroidery and approached the woman, who was making conversation with a man her age in similarly antiquated clothing. She tapped her shoulder hesitantly, and when the woman turned around, she said something that sounded like a question.

Motte did the hand motion for drinking, tipping an imaginary bottle towards her mouth, then pointed to her stomach. The woman nodded, and reached for a clay mug, filling it with what appeared to be ale, and slid it towards her. Motte picked it up with both hands, sloshing it around in the mug. It smelled sweet and delicious, but she wondered how strong it was. She raised a sip to her lips carefully and set the mug down. It was sweet, with a bit of a honeyed apple and vinegar flavor to it. She couldn't decide if she liked it or not. It wasn't particularly strong, as far as she could tell, however, so she went for another sip in silence. She usually preferred margaritas when she drank, but this was tolerable, and she'd take what she was given.

She needed to pee still, but as the man and woman began to close up shop for the night, waving friendly goodbyes to their customers, she got the feeling that soon she'd have to head back upstairs. She finished off the last sip of the ale, and leaned against the counter. The night outside the window was pitch black, and she could see the rest of the houses beginning to dim down. Her heart caught in her throat. It had been a whole day, and still no signs of Ophir. This was unnerving. Surely she was looking. She couldn't imagine that Ophir wouldn't be. She got nervous when she lost her at the supermarket.

The man said something to the woman, and they started a conversation before the woman went to the same back room and came back with a large…vase? Motte cocked her head and prayed that the poor pot wasn't what it looked like. The uncomfortable demeanor of the woman suggested that it was. She pointed to the outside door, then out the window to the back of the tavern that seemed to overlook a small stream, and a shovel beside the door. To her, the message was clear. Use the pot, and when it's full, bury the waste out back.

Well, she crossed her fingers that washing her hands was somewhere in this game plan. She presumed it went in her room, so she nodded understandingly to the woman and carried it upstairs before climbing back down. She still hadn't eaten all day, since the meal of potatoes and sausage around the campfire with Ophir the night before.

The two owners- she did presume they were married- were cleaning up. She stood back against the wall by the stairs, and the woman ignored her as she finished up her sweeping and wiping the tables. Motte frowned and fidgeted with the hem on her dress. The man walked up to her and gestured for her to follow him, and he led her through the door to what she had previously assumed was another room.

Motte had been quite mistaken. This was the couple's living quarters. A round wooden table with a pitcher of water, a stove, a fireplace, and armchairs were in the room as she could see here, and two other doors- probably to bedrooms and storage- were on the left. The place was quaint, a little messy, but colorful and warm. She could immediately feel the presence of home, even if it wasn't her own. The man immediately got to work cooking that smelled tasty, and she pulled up one of the three dining room chairs, determining on her own that if she couldn't speak his language, she wasn't of much help in the kitchen. The woman walked in, and lit the candles around the room, started the fireplace, and emptied what she assumed was the day's earnings, as it was in a small box, into a larger locked box. It appeared to be coins. They worked hard for a living, that she could tell.

She was still cold, but she didn't want to move for fear of getting in the way or being out of place, so slowly, she scooted her chair further to the side of the table closer to the fire. The woman sat down across from her, and began to quiz her on words.

Chair. Table. Plate. Floor, a new word. Fire, a new word. Ceiling. Window. Door. They were all easy enough to remember, she thought. But this wasn't going to get any easier after this point. Motte had never learned another language before and didn't have a frame of reference to compare this one to. Finally, Motte worked up the courage to ask something new.

"Motte," she said pointing to herself. "Mot-hee."

"Motte," the woman repeated, with a nod, then pointed to herself. "Fern." A simple name. She pointed to her husband. "Bennan."

"Fern, Bennan," she repeated as Bennan set down the food, potatoes once more with some kind of salted pork and carrots, smothered in gravy. She didn't care for gravy, but that mattered little. She scarfed it down, and the couple stared at her for a few seconds before talking to one another and eating. After Bennan was finished, Fern gathered the plates and washed them in the bucket beside the stove, then placed them on a rack to dry. He grabbed a pipe off the mantle and filled it with tobacco leaves, and smoked the pipe as he warmed himself by the fire. Motte had grown up in tobacco country, and the scent of pipe tobacco reminded her of her grandfather, who had died when she was very little. The smoke was a little comforting, and she sat in silence beside the fire for what felt like a very long time, before she left and went back to the upper storage room that was now her own.

Motte first made use of the chamber pot. It wasn't horribly difficult, but she was rather disgusted by it and pushed it to the furthest corner from her bed. She moved her clothes off of the little lumpy mattress, setting them into the trunk, and curled up back under the blanket. Moonlight shown down upon her through the window. She wondered, was Ophir looking at the same moon? Or had she entered another world altogether?


	4. Chapter 4

Ophir 

It was chilly when dawn rose, and dew had trickled onto the blades of grass and leaves of the trees as the rosy sun crept over the horizon. Ophir woke up in the morning, yawned, and felt the gnaw of hunger claw at her stomach. Seldom was it this immediate when she woke up in the morning, but then again, all she'd eaten the day before, she thought, was a piece of bread. She had good reason to be hungry. Hopefully they had some grub.

She sat up, only to realize, the four men were already awake, sitting around a fresh campfire, and cooking some sausages, sopping the bread from yesterday in the grease. One of them made some kind of joke at her expense, and laughing, another one (Aldred?) passed her a plate. She devoured it hungrily, and reached for one of the skins sitting by the man closest to her's pack, downing it. They laughed. Apparently they'd never seen anyone eat like this before. She wiped her face on her sleeve, and pulled on the coat that she'd used as a blanket. She was ready to go when they were.

Or that's what she thought. As they put out the fire and gathered their things, they seemed to redistribute items from their own packs, into another one, which…they left by her. Well, she'd have to carry her own weight eventually. She just didn't feel up to it right then. Experienced backpacker though she was, she could still be lazy as the day was long, and she was by no means a morning person. But the leader, Urithor, she presumed, by the looks of him and his behavior, which just seemed off in comparison to the other five, was already on his feet, and ready to go.

He was listening. To Ophir, there seemed to be nothing to hear, but he was watching as if in hunt. It reminded her of her childhood dog, a retriever, who would point at any gust of wind. But to see that expression reflected on a person was very different. He held himself differently, dressed himself differently, and strangely enough, seemed like he could be thirty in the weathering of his face and darkness of his hair, but his eyes and posture seemed to age him, as if he was an old hunter in the body of a younger one. She also noticed he only had a small bag, and two weapons on him. It was altogether very distinct from the others of the group, but they listened to him and his orders without question. She would do the same as soon as she could understand their words, but her curiosity was growing.

Ophir threw the bag over her shoulder, and noted that it was still a good bit lighter than her own backpacking pack. The camp was checked over again, and Osric scattered the logs and ashes, concealing that anyone was ever there recently. Cold, dead, smokeless ashes were much harder to trace than a recent campfire. But Ophir didn't know if, or why, anyone would follow them.

The woods were beginning to thin, and the air cleared of the heavy, moldy odor of dense trees. Her range of sight opened to a beautiful, but unprecedented picturesque view as they came over one clearing about two hours into the hike. Towering, jagged, snow-capped peaks overshadowed foothills and valleys of pristine woods, where they must've been, and she had a feeling they weren't in Tennessee, let alone the national park anymore. There was no evidence of habitation anywhere nearby, no towns, lights, roads, not even the tread of tires in the dirt that would've suggested off-roading. The place was untouched by anyone but them. The beauty of their surroundings reminded her of why she'd loved the outdoors so much in the first place, but she barely had a moment to capture it in her mind before they kept moving.

By midday, they were in open fields, the forest behind them. It made the going quicker, but she felt a pang of guilt. Motte was behind her, and wherever they were taking her was ahead. By the looks of it, they were headed south, and she had a sick feeling in her stomach that, while possibly dehydration, could also be the pain of being lost. Ophir was being torn away further and further from the world she knew, and deeper into this one, no matter how the trees cleared. She was now all the more certain that this world was not her own, and while she knew it was silly to think such a thing, she had a feeling she would not be going home any time soon.

"Ophir," one of the men said, probably Mareck, she thought. She turned to him. He pointed to a rock and said a word. She repeated it. He nodded. This was the word for rock. He continued teaching her to speak, pointing out swords, bows, different trees, grass, sky, mountains, and quizzing her periodically. She repeated the word for thank you, each time, and it must've been at least a little funny, because Mareck was having a good time laughing at her gratitude. It just seemed commonly polite to her to thank someone for their help, but then again, she was a little bit more direct about her manners than most people were used to. She supposed that must've been it.

By evening, they were traveling much faster than they had been in the morning, and Mareck had ceased his vocabulary lesson. The party was nearing a jog in pace, and while Ophir was having a hard time keeping up, that wasn't going to be admitted under any circumstances. She was doing everything in her power to keep up, and seemed to be succeeding. At long last, she could see the lights of a town in early evening, only a mile ahead. It looked small, but it was a town. From a distance, it kind of reminded her of her own home town. It was situated in the middle of a plain, though there were a few trees and thin woods bordered the grass flats. It was likely easy to defend, or at least, that was what her instincts told her.

Urithor said something, and she was struck again by his leader like qualities. This was someone she could aspire to be, someone she could respect. He made the short speech to his men, probably announcing their intentions and the duration of their stay, and led them on towards the town, the fatigue mingling with anticipation. This was homecoming, and she could feel it in each of them, excepting Urithor, who seemed to simply be doing his duty.

As they drew closer to the town, she expected streetlights, a clear road, something that was a trademark of civilization. She knew people lived in ass-nowhere in the woods, like Motte's family, but they did have cars and grocery stores somewhere, didn't they? Instead, she was rather unpleasantly surprised by very different circumstances. The town, though it had a few outlying cottages and farms, was walled, and the lights she'd seen were lanterns on wallposts. Inside of the walls, the houses were daub and timber, similar to the period revival towns she'd seen on a field trip in sixth grade. Roads were stone and dirt, tread smooth, and she could see both thatch and shale roofs from over the wall. The gate was large, the same height as the wall and just as thick, made of heavy logs. One man who was smoking a pipe stood outside it, and barely had to catch a glimpse of the party before pulling it open. He called something at them, and was answered by a few remarks, a gesture to her, and a few waves goodbye.

Behind the gate, a bustle of men, women, and children flooded her senses. Vendors sold food, chimneys piped smoke into the air, and dogs and cats wandered the alleys. She was amazed for a second, as if she had been taken back in time. But the uneasiness crept back in within a moment, and she quickly realized that in her jeans, fleece, and massive hiking boots, she didn't look anything like these people- not to mention that she wasn't white, and she couldn't find anyone in the crowd who wasn't at least European looking. She could almost feel the eyes on her. She was a stranger.

But the four men with her didn't seem to care much. They were making a beeline for a large building at the end of the street the gate opened onto. It had wide doors covered in carvings and reminded her of something she'd seen once in a generic fantasy movie or show. What was that Vikings one she'd watched three episodes of when it first started and had then lost track of? She could recognize some of the motifs faintly, having taken an art history class as an elective, but nothing well enough to make any determinations. Northern European was all she could really bullshit. The roof was thatched, and the hall seemed older somehow than the rest of the town in a way that she couldn't put her finger on. She barely had time to try and analyze the architecture, however, before they ushered her inside, Osric closing the large door behind them.

On the inside, the hall had rows of tables, with a large fire pit in the very center, though there was little more than ash in the pit. She assumed this was some kind of gathering hall, though looking around, it seemed to be more multipurposed than that. Towards the very back of the room was a row of racks of weapons and banners, and a wide space. Sparring, she guessed, also happened here. The other men sat down at one table, and Ophir didn't know if she should've sat with them or not. With some trepidation, she sat at the other table beside theirs, within earshot but still far enough to feel unobtrusive. She ran her hands along the heavy oak of the table. It may have been in its youth a much rougher piece, but the years had worn it down to a smooth, organic sort of finish. It reminded her a little of her great-aunt's house in the deep parts of the Upper Peninsula. She'd had furniture like this, with sinks and pits made by faithful use.

Ophir was learning to distinguish voices. Lower, louder tones were Aldred's, the musical tenor was Mareck, the rough bark belonged to Osric, and the soft, near whispering voice of authority belonged to Urithor. She knew them by sight as well, or at least was learning. Aldred was an older man, appearing to be the oldest of them all, with a heavy build and slightly faded red hair that age must've taken the vibrancy from. Mareck was a vibrant, smiling blond who was taller than anyone else in the small group. Osric was stocky and dark haired and eyed, and he seemed to have an air of discontent about him, and lastly, Urithor, who had ash brown hair and a soft down beard on a narrow face, had those piercing eyes that made him seem constantly alert. The distinctions may not have been as clear as day the night before or throughout the morning while they were traveling, but here and now she could plainly see them.

Their conversation lulled to a slower pace, with more laughter and eventually, they stood, and Ophir, feeling a little like a lost dog, stood as well, Aldred waving for her to follow. They set down their packs, and pulled out their weapons, which she almost felt a little envious of, and laid them out along the other wall, then walked out of the hall into the dark evening streets. She tagged behind them, feeling completely lost here. It was now the late evening, the sun gone and the air barely above fifty degrees. Though she was disgruntled about abandoning her campsite and being dragged further and further from where Motte might've been, she was at least grateful for her fleece jacket.

Mareck, with a jovial smile, pushed open a heavy green door on the main road, pushing them all inside as a young woman with a tired, scarred face kissed him on the cheek and a little boy no older than three clamped himself onto his legs. With a laugh, he scooped the kid into his arms, and began a discussion with the two in a brighter intonation than Ophir had heard earlier- and considering how happy he'd sounded before, this was saying something.

Urithor said something to the woman with a laugh and Ophir guessed, looking around the little shop, that this was a bakery. Loaves of bread were resting on shelves behind a counter, and in the windowsill, she saw pies cooling, and the smell of buttery, yeasty bread made her feel warm and welcome in a strange and frightening place. The woman headed to the back room with Urithor and Mareck in tow, a somber expression on her face, and while Ophir got the impression that the little boy and woman were Mareck's family, she also knew that she was something more, simply by instinct. She gathered that this woman was the backbone of the group in some way, and the sharp look in her eye meant that she had to be more than simply the keeper of a place for them to stay.

Aldred was helping himself to a mince pie hot off of the counter, and Osric was staring out the window, watching people pass as if he was vigilantly waiting for someone. Eventually, he sat down on one of the corner stools and grabbed an apple out of one of the baskets that lined the shelves along the back wall. He tossed one to Ophir, who was still standing uncomfortably by the door, and she nodded gratefully and accepted it. Holding it in her hand, she noticed that it was smaller than normal apples she knew, and a little softer. With a solid bite, it tasted of honey and tart crispness, the perfect apple.

She began to relax. Besides, the place was cozy. She pulled out a chair across from Osric, resting an elbow on the table. He didn't flinch, nor did he glance at her. Osric seemed more or less to be the least friendly of the group, but she was growing curious about who the four men were. Mareck appeared to have a family. Aldred seemed at least accommodating, and the most eager to teach her, Osric was gruff and seemed somewhat disagreeable, and while she recognized that Urithor was the most alert and leader like of the bunch, she didn't know exactly whether she considered him trustworthy, or not.

Crunching down the apple to its core, she finally had leeway to think of Motte. Where was she? It had been…she counted mentally. Over a day and a half. They could've been very far apart by now. If Motte had gone the precise other direction, and surely hadn't known her way through the deep parts of the woods that Ophir had walked through yesterday morning, then when she woke up, wherever she was, she could've been anywhere.

She was tempted to go back and scour the forest, but realized quickly that that was unrealistic. Not only was Ophir without supplies, but she didn't know her way around the area, and it was a long day's travel, even by her own standards, back to the woods. If she found Motte, and that was a big if- how would they get back when they both already seemed so far away? It felt futile to even consider that an option.

But then, what options did she even have?

Stay here?

Well, that was an option, and at least she didn't really seem to be raising anybody's dander by coming back with them. Maybe she was an outsider, but surely there had been other outsiders before. She wouldn't mind building her own cottage a few miles from the village, either, once she got properly acclimated to the locals. She had taken shop class, and she was mostly confident in her abilities. At least, she could try. And once she had a cabin, she could go search for Motte, and since she would have a home base and a garden plot and weapons and…Perhaps she was getting ahead of herself.

She scraped the remnants of the apple with her front teeth, leaving tiny bite marks in the hard core. The sticky juice of the apple left her not really wanting to touch anything, so she blew a stray black bit of bangs out of her hair. Osric frowned slightly at her, and she thought he had no room to talk, considering his shoulder length hair looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks.

As she began to gnash at the apple's final bits, the door opened from behind the counter again, and the woman, still mid laugh, gave Urithor a harsh elbow to the ribs, eliciting a smile from the hard looking man. Mareck said something, and Osric himself laughed a little along with the others- Alden, Urithor, the woman, and Mareck? Yes. She had to drill these into her brain. These were the first people she'd met here, and she had to remember them. Osric stood and waved and left, followed by Alden, but they didn't motion for her to leave as well.

The woman took Osric's seat, sitting backwards in the chair and leaning over the back, smiling happily. She was the type of girl Ophir would've been into, with different circumstances and if she didn't already have a very committed girlfriend, she thought, her gaze tracing the scars on the woman's face. They ran down both sides of her face close to the scalp, and down her jaw and the sides of her neck, perfectly parallel, and then there were a few nicks on her jawline and forehead, and she could also tell her nose had been broken before. Her skin was tan; not as dark as Ophir's, but not fair either, so the scars stood out like little white chalk lines, or else she wouldn't have spent so long staring and wondering: how would she have gotten those?

The woman pointed to herself. "Lewen."

"Lewen," said Ophir, nodding slowly. She pointed to herself. "Ophir."


End file.
